


Dust of Cadia

by The_LupercalXVI



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: 13th Black Crusade, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Black Legion, Cadia, Dubious Consent, Emperor Revived, F/M, M/M, POV First Person, Time Travel, War, inquisitor - Freeform, vengeful spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-08-09 20:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20123710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_LupercalXVI/pseuds/The_LupercalXVI
Summary: Only major note I want to make here is that Theta belongs to a friend, I just borrowed him because he and Liese have a lovely history of purging heresy together.





	1. I. 999.M41

I have woken in a cold place. Despite being enemies, heretics, and known to me as monsters and nothing more, the Black Legion has not granted me death. Instead, it is said that I will be assigned a task once the final battle is over. They have granted me a slate to watch this madness. I have been informed I am welcome to walk the decks of the _Vengeful Spirit _at my own risk.

My name is Liese Morn, and I am an acolyte of the Ordos Cadia. I was born on Cadia, yes, and raised to either join the Cadian Guard or serve the Emperor in some other form. At age six my faith was tested, and I was chosen to train under the Inquisition.

_Cadia stands so long as her people fight._

I don’t know that I count as someone fighting for her, now, a prisoner. If I’m even considered that. I didn’t come aboard this ship willingly, but no one sees me as a threat. Even if I had a rosette to throw—but I should. When the Inquisition fell, my Master gave me his. Surely these creatures have some form of honor and wouldn’t take a meaningless trinket from me. Meaningless to them, at least…my entire life, since age six, has been shaped around receiving that signet. And that I was granted it from my Master’s hand, as his body went limp and his spewing blood went cold, it aches deeply inside me. My heart, my soul, it quakes to know what was lost. The man who gave me purpose, the man who promised we would find a better future—I can still see his eyes roll back into his broken brow.

_Cadia stands so long as one person fights for her._

This place, this room. It smells oddly pleasant. Lavender, perhaps. But why would they seek to comfort me? Clearly it’s some form of trap, but why trap someone already in a cage? Are there not better methods to use to torture someone?

_“The Warmaster has boarded,_” someone calls. They aren’t speaking Gothic, which makes me wonder how I understand it.

_“To the bridge, his orders,_” someone else replies. They sound important, or at least, powerful. I won’t give in to heresy and say they matter. They have forsaken the light of His Holiness. He may have forsaken me, my world, my people, but I will not forsake Him. Not even if all light is extinguished. Faith transcends time, mind, being—faith is what drives the soul. If a soul has a flicker of faith, it can be saved. It is simply a matter of whether it _should_ be saved, and while I may pass on the Emperor’s judgment, given the chance, I know it far beyond me to say who or what is redeemable. I am a girl—at most a woman—and I must do my duty no matter where it leads me.

I confess I’d hoped more for death at this point than captivity, but I will rise above my speculations. I will fight and do my best for the Imperium. For Cadia. For the Emperor. For tomorrow.

_“Bring the bitch,_” someone else hisses. How many are there? Why do they all sound so confident? So cocky, even. Cadia was not in any more danger than before, and it has stood their pummeling for ten thousand years. Proudly, defiantly. Cadia stands.

_“Yeah, yeah, arright, I’ll drag the little girl up and let her watch the galaxy burn,_” the second voice says, bored. And yet even in his boredom, I can hear malice. Fear wells up inside me that it’s not too long until the stars are indeed set aflame by whatever the Despoiler has set in motion.

Before I can gather my thoughts, there are gauntlets sparing my skin nothing, dragging me forward. My protests that I can walk go unheard, so I force my feet under me and attempt to keep up with what I can only assume is an eager astartes. And I am a fool for wondering what excites him as we reach the viewport.

The Despoiler sits in a chair, watching his destroyed spaceship crash into my home, sipping some form of pungent alcohol from a skull. A skull fashioned into a chalice. And as much as I want to slap it out of his hands, just to spite him, the sight immobilizes me.

_Cadia stands._

The meteor does not slow. It does not disintegrate. It does not break apart at all. My eyes widen, my heart pounding. I don’t know if I’m screaming, or even what is happening as a firm, oversized arm holds me still.

_Cadia stands!_

And then the planet, so defiant with her people, begins to rip. With the atmosphere shredded, and only her skin left, Cadia cracks. The pain of all her lost bursts through her flesh, and her sorrow weeping into the abyss that reaches for it like a drooling toddler.

_Cadia…stands…_

The clink of the skull-chalice being set down would normally have alerted me to potential danger, and the laugh before it. But then I feel myself going limp—whoever supported me is gone. I look up, my lips praying for something, and only catch the glimpse of golden lights above before something catches me, and all is dark.


	2. II. 997.M45

_If I get another Emperor-damned call today, I am going to shoot the vox, then the next person to walk into my office. Then probably myself to spare a trial—if only that would work. Emperor damn you further, Abaddon. Further,_ I think, writing for all I am worth about the newest Heretic scheme. An annoying—albeit welcome—bird chirps from my window and after taking a deep breath, I look to Him.

“Yes sir?”

“Honestly I was just testing to see if you’d shoot me,” He taunts.

“You didn’t call or walk in, so technically you are safe from my rambling. Was I thinking too loud? I didn’t wake him up,” I say, gesturing towards my Arco Flagellant comrade, Theta.

“No, no, you were fine. I had a question,” the bird—the Emperor being sneaky, if you’re confused—stated. He’s been awake a year now. All of the Primarchs are back. Oh yeah, even _that_ one. Godhood doesn’t make the Emperor immune to repeating history. We’ll pray it does anyway. Good news is Horus tends to avoid everyone. He is provoked every now and then, but never to the extent of doing something entirely stupid. And we’ve got other threats right now.

“I can try and answer, but I can’t guarantee I have a clue, sir,” I say. He head-bobs and hops off the perch, then takes his human form in the biggest chair I’ve got. I fail to hide my amusement—I confess, as long as He spent on the Throne, you’d think He’d be eager to do anything but sit.

“Alright, two questions…three,” He says.

“Do I need to charge for my time, sir?”

“Cute,” He grumbles. “The first is straightforward. What are you grinning about?

“I’m easily amused by things I shouldn’t think, sir. It’s not your doing,” I say, forcing myself to go back to standard Inquisitor mode.

“Second, then. Do you know where Malcador wound up?”

I consider, running a finger over my lower lip as I tend to do when weighing my options. On the one hand, Malcador doesn’t realize he belongs to this Imperium in his current incarnation. On the other, the Emperor’s desires are supposed to be more important than any secrets I promised to keep. Is it a matter of who do I betray? No. It’s a matter of my main job: protect the Imperium. If that means going against my leader, I can ask for forgiveness later.

“I have vague ideas, yes sir. If you wish to make contact, however, it’s going to be rather complicated. I could do it, but I admit I would need good reasons to do so,” I say.

“Other than I miss him?” He says. I nod, averting my eyes. I understand the pain. The need to see someone lost again. But I also understand the consequences. I have learned that sometimes the need is less important than preserving the memory.

“I don’t think I have a great reason, but I do feel we’re going to need him soon. Premonition? I’ve had those forever and always been awful at acting on them. I’ll leave it to your judgment. As for the final question, well, in regards to the threat from my ancestors, I sent Horus to recruit the Black Legion to our cause. Was that an awful idea?”

Prayer. Prayer isn’t going to solve the problem here. He just sent Horus to either his second—third? death or just gave the Black Legion a whole lot of firepower it really didn’t need. And why is He asking for advice after He’s already done it? Admittedly, this reunion was bound to happen at some point, but did we really need to add the chaotic legions to the mix? When the enemy bearing down on us has much more against order than chaos, it seems like feeding chaos is the worst possible plan. And yet we’re already down that path. Prayer is not going to solve this problem. 

“Well,” I say. I have no other words. I really want to slap Him. That’s heresy. It got everyone’s attention last time someone slapped the Emperor. That’s worse heresy.

“Bad idea, got it,” He says.

“I might can manage damage control, sir, if I can be dismissed from my offices.”

“Are you going to get yourself killed, Liese?” He asks. I smile as I start packing my bags and giving Theta the code to wake up.

“Death is one thing that only slows me down a little, sir.”

_If you’re listening, Ezekyle Abaddon, do not shoot Horus down. We need your help, and Emperor protect me, I’m going to get it out of you whether you like it or not._


	3. III. 999. M41

Where am I now? The room feels…warm? And yet dark. There’s someone else in here. But I’m scared to move—no. It hurts to move. Not physically. Emotionally. My heart and soul have been wounded. And I’m not sure that I’ll recover. I’m not sure I’ll ever become someone, now. My world is lost. My people are, at best, scattered, and I am a prisoner of the monsters that tore us all apart. Such chaos—Emperor help me, the chaos is everywhere.

“Do you like chocolate cake?” a dark, heavy voice asks.

Cake? Right now I don’t want to do anything but throw up and someone is offering me cake? “Leave me alone,” I hiss. An offended huff is the only response I get for several long minutes.

“Well, do you?” it asks again. It’s not going to leave me alone. I try to sit up only to be pushed back down and realize the other person in the room is Abaddon the Despoiler. My body goes stiffer than I knew it could go and immediately I start trying to figure out where I am and how I got here. His questions about cake can wait.

“Look, do you like chocolate cake or not, because if you don’t, I’m going to eat this piece and I’ll find something else you can eat,” he growls.

Suddenly, it’s like he’s human. Not a warrior. Not an astartes. Not a monster, but a young man who is attempting to be social.

“I don’t really feel hungry right now, having just watched my home explode,” I say, trying to sound at least somewhat grateful that he’s offering me food. The tone is, instead, flat and hints at anger.

“You haven’t eaten in five days. You have to eat something,” he says while pushing a plate of cake towards me. The portion is absolutely astartes sized—I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that much food in our stores much less on a plate. It smells _really_ good, as though it was freshly baked. I don’t really think anyone on the _Vengeful Spirit_ excels at baking, but the effect is nice, and probably Slaaneshi. Which makes it heresy, and so I push it back towards him.

“I’ll be fine without—”

“Would you eat the fucking cake!” he shouts, picking up the fork and stabbing a chunk and then shoving it in my mouth. At this point I’m too stunned to refuse. And also a little terrified. Abaddon the Despoiler just attacked me. With cake.

“Is it good?” he asks, forcing himself to calm down. His eyes are oddly bright and golden, not the smoldering coal black I remembered from legends.

“Yes?” I answer. I’ve never had much more than rations, honestly. My former Master did get me a flask of wine and some pastries for my 18th birthday, but life before that was definitely rations.

“You aren’t sure?” he asks, looking at me with one raised eyebrow. In his head I’m pretty sure he’s screaming ‘why are mortals so stupid.’ And then my intelligence begins to function at a level other than not at all as I realize why he’s asking. He made the cake. He baked it. Abaddon can cook.

“It is good,” I say. I pray this isn’t heresy. “I’ve never had cake before, and you startled me.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Cadia didn’t have cake at all?”

Didn’t. Never will, now. “No…at least, not for those of us who earned our right to live by fighting y…”

“Ah, rank of the Imperium. The lower you go, the less you eat and the more is expected of you. Well, you’re not in the Imperium right now, so eat as much of that as you want,” he says, turning away and walking to a desk. The room isn’t as dark as I thought when I woke, and I am beginning to think it’s some form of bedroom. His? I have no idea. It doesn’t seem likely. Part of me wants to accuse him of everything he’s ever done wrong, and part of me wants to ask him how he got the ingredients to make a cake. Instead, I take another bite. It has to be heresy to be eating cake the Despoiler made. It also has to be unhealthy. Nothing good actually feels good or tastes good. That was the first lesson of the Inquisition. 

Another bite as I watch him and realize that he is large, but not as big or scary looking when he’s not wearing armor. And his body is muscular, thick, and…oddly well-shaped. He’s got the best ass I’ve ever seen. Thematic? Probably, but it does look nice. There are many patches on his body suit and bloodstains from the recent battle. Holes—one over the spine gapes the most—and it looks like it has seen better days. And there are scars, but I can’t really get a look at them through the suit. 

“Do you drink?” he asks, flipping through a dataslate.

“Why are you acting like this?” I blurt. I expect a bolter to be aimed at my head and instead he just laughs again. It’s not a cold laugh, either.

“I am not acting, for one. I am, in fact, capable of things other than the destruction your legends have credited to me. I am an astartes. And while we were created to wage war eternal, we were made from young boys with little choice otherwise. So, Acolyte, tell me this, why am I not allowed to act human when I am one?”

What do I say? I know very little of astartes. I know I’ve never heard them referred to as humans. I know they undergo a lot of painful, waking surgeries to become murderous men, but I don’t really know the process. I don’t know what they do or don’t feel—I’ve always seen them as a step above anything I will ever be. And that makes them inhuman…or it did. Until this point. 

“So do you drink?” he asks, taking my silence as answer enough. His confidence is annoying. 

“Water would be nice,” I finally say, watching him carefully. He taps the screen in front of him once, then taps his vox bead and has a conversation with someone in a language I don’t recognize. He gets loud very quickly, but after a couple of moments past his final order? he taps the bead again. I believe he was adjusting the volume. 

There are five bolter shots outside the door and I startle; he doesn’t even react. _Created to wage war eternal,_ he said. And he’s lived war his entire life, to my knowledge. 

_Made from young boys with little choice otherwise, _he also said. Does he regret being a Space Marine? Perhaps I am reading too far into this, but of the astartes I’ve encountered, I’ve never heard any of them mention their former lives. Could be a chaotic thing. Maybe, maybe the Imperial astartes have no need to brag of their childhoods because they are proud of where they are. 

“You would ask for the hardest drink to come by,” he says after plugging the slate in and turning back to face me, while leaning on the desk. 

“Now, if you’ll quit criticizing me and analyzing my every action, we can discuss why I didn’t blow you up on your homeworld and instead am being rather hospitable. I am a man with needs, and you are the means of which I will get what I need done. You are an acolyte of the Inquisition, unless _this_ is something you stole,” he says, holding up my rosette. 

“I am, yes,” I say slowly. I need that back. “But having one technically makes me an Inquisitor, or at least an acting one.” 

“It will get the job done. Have you ever piloted a ship?” 

Do I look like some super accomplished person, sitting here with his damned cake in my lap wondering what the hell he’s plotting? “No.” 

“I can send someone with you, drop you around Pluto. Goal is for you to get to Terra. Once there, you’re going to deliver a nice solid message to a guy you Inquisitors are holding. His name is Iskandar Khayon. Harmless unless provoked, generally hard to provoke. He’s patient for a psyker. You are going to tell him _‘Ghalil tekahno.’ _Now say it,” he says. 

I just stare at him. Probably not the best course since he seems to be more geared towards getting things done, but I don’t even know how to react other than to stare. After a moment, he sighs. 

“It means ‘red horizon’ in Cthonic. He’ll understand what it implies, and then you can go about your merry, underappreciated life trying to scrape by and die and go honor the Corpse god or something,” he says. 

“I would like to ask how Nurgle is any less a Corpse God than the Holy God Emperor.” 

“Nurgle provides both compassion and protection, if you’re so curious. And his protection actually works,” Abaddon states. 

“You act like you understand the Emperor and his blessings,” I retort. 

“Considering I fought by his side for a solid 200 years, I’d say I’m more qualified to understand how he worked than many in the Inquisition. I saw him fade. I saw his body ripped apart and laying in a heap on the ground. I saw the birth of the end of the Imperium. And if you’re really curious, girl, I can walk you right now to the place it all happened. On _my_ ship.” 

This catches me off guard. Not his bragging that it’s his ship—that’s normal chaotic posturing. The fact that he fought alongside the Emperor. That they were allies, and that the Despoiler was not born a traitorous scumbag. Why did the Inquisition not teach us this? Why was the depth of the betrayal not fully explained? Do they think that knowing the enemy risks one to be corrupt? Am I now a heretic because I want to know what happened that ripped a hole into the reality that once was _our_ Imperium? 

“Ah, yes, the joys of being young. They haven’t told you the whole story. They don’t tell you why both sides fight. Simply why you should fight chaos. Religion is always a beautiful thing,” he says, almost singsong. And then he comes and sits in front of me, like a child wanting to be asked what he learned in lessons that day. I won’t be so bold as to call it innocence, but it’s certainly a piece of him that isn’t fitting into the mold of what I think of when I hear the term Despoiler. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling. 

“Liese Morn,” I answer. It is odd to me that I feel there’s something that could connect us. As though the threads are being woven for us to at least respect each other. If I manage to survive this, I am not certain any amount of religious purging will save me, but now I know for certain that both sides have a story. 

Is it worth my honor to hear both halves?


	4. IV. 999. M45

It has been a long night. I am to be put on trial for heresy. The charges are immense, starting with the fact that a bolter shell went through my chest and did not kill me, and ending with me not doing my job despite the fact that I had been shot and arrested. The Emperor cannot hear me now, and those I have loved for so long are distant at best. I remember the riot, the orders to take the planet, and my refusal to comply. I remember the screaming as the Ministorum and Inquisition marched side by side, refuting the Emperor’s blessings. They did not care that millions were shaken from the faith that held the Imperium together.

The Custodes stood firmly at the Gate. The Mechanicum quivered, new weapons ready. Heresy, they cried, had run too deep. That the only way to save the Imperium was for the Emperor to be reborn.

He did not yield, nor did his men. All of the Primarchs stood ready to slash at the throats of maddened mortals. Astartes—young and old—steadied their weapons. The march stopped just before the triggers were pulled.

There was to be a conversation on what they declared was heretical. They were to tell their side, the accused then speak, and a resolution to be made. At gunpoint, perhaps, but a resolution.

And then reality tore open.

No, the Warp did not reach Terra and shred her last hope. It wasn’t that. It was time itself that betrayed the Imperium. My hidden ordo, Chronos, sounded her call. And we ran to stop it, only to be arrested as traitors. I do not know now, who lives, who died, who will die.

I only pray that we find the solution, somehow, before the final bell tolls. Before what we have made is lost in the sands that fuel another world.

I pray the Emperor made it out.


	5. V. 999. M41

I’ve been sitting here alone for about 20 minutes now. There was an urgent vox call for Abaddon to report to the bridge. I find it interesting he put his armor back on to walk around his own ship. But I’ve already figured out that betrayal runs deep, regardless of allegiance. And now I’m feeling bold enough to be nosy. If I’m going to die a heretic, I’m going to die a knowledgeable one. Maybe the Despoiler will forgive me rummaging if he really needs that message delivered.

_Ghalil tekahno. _Red horizon. The Black Crusades are over, then, and now the galaxy entire will burn beneath the Black Legion’s boots. Blood will spill in the name of Khorne, hopes will be thrown to Tzeentch, the pleasure of the victor and pain of the loser praises Slaanesh, and all that is left behind to rot will honor Nurgle.

Chaos seems to have the upper hand here, but why have they not moved forward with the momentum they have? Why aren’t they driving to Terra, paving the way with their gods’ favor?

_It’s the Long War,_ I hear my Master tell me. Cadia had, shall we say, more access to what the denizens of Chaos plotted because of our unfortunate closeness to the Eye of Terror.

Cadia, you fell, didn’t you? There’s nothing left of you. Your heart is dead, your people are—no. Cadia stands. I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care who fights for what. My world, my heritage, and my people are still fighting the damned Long War. And we’re not giving up until every drop of blood spilt has been honored.

Whatever that means. I sigh and crawl off the bed, walking to the nearby desk and running a hand over it. It’s older than me. A lot older. The drawers stick a little and the metal pieces are rusted. The entire piece is in decent condition, though, despite a few stains—not figuring out what those stains are—and some notches that look like they were cut in by a bored hand. The pattern on the desk itself seems symbolic, if strangely decorative. I look around the rest of the room and notice the same pattern etched into the walls, spaced evenly, perfectly.

It isn’t a mark familiar to me, though. Not a symbol of any Legion I’ve encountered in study, not a religious icon, not the Chaos Undivided star redesigned. No Eye of Horus. It’s very, well, different than anything I’ve seen. And seems to be a territorial marking? Why?

I then see something glint inside the drawer I am fumbling with and my poor judgment skills activate. I open the drawer and pull out a small seal. It’s a wolf head painted over a rather detailed etching of a full moon. Luna, perhaps. The wolf is realistic—I assume, at least. I’ve never seen a wolf, but the picture in front of me looks like it has real fur. I even pet it, expecting it to be soft, though it isn’t.

There are several other things in the drawer that don’t seem characteristic of Abaddon. An old armor fragment, a patch of fur, and an Aquila with the forward head cut off. There are other things inside, too, and I want to see what—

“Enjoying yourself?” a cold voice calls from the door and I jump. I turn, defensively despite having nothing to fight with aside from my fists. A narrowed pair of golden eyes look down on me as Abaddon walks in and shoves me away from the desk. He’s not gentle about it, either, and when my head hits the wall, I can feel my nose start to bleed.

“You didn’t take anything, at least,” he says, shutting the drawer loudly and turning to look at me. “What were you looking for?”

Once I get my sleeve to my nose and whisper a prayer that I don’t have brain damage, I stiffen my back and meet his gaze. I understand I’m a toy to him at best, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a proud toy.

“Answers,” I growl. He laughs—once again, not cold, but human. He hands me a towel and pushes me to a sit on the bed. I clearly need to work on my intimidation skills.

“Lean forward, take slow breaths through your mouth, and hold the towel just above your upper lip with your left hand, pinch the nostrils closed with the right hand. It’ll slow down and quit shortly. If it doesn’t, I’ll take you to the apothecarium.”

Now I’m getting medical treatment from the guy who blew up my planet. And also who shoved me into the wall and gave me the nosebleed to start with. What have I done wrong to deserve this?

“Lean forward, damn,” he says, pushing my head forward. I try to push his hand away but I might as well be trying to move a mountain.

“And pinch your nose. You need both hands on your face so leave mine alone.”


	6. VI. 997. M45

_“Did you just say that we’re about to hail the Vengeful Spirit?”_ Theta asks through our mental connection. He sends several more question mark glyphs, tapping his chainsword arm against the ship as we move into a static position.

“I did, yes. Don’t be scared,” I say, tapping the panel in front of me. It shouldn’t be dangerous since they know we’re here and haven’t shot us down yet. I’m assuming we haven’t snuck up on them. I’m also confused as to why they aren’t in the Eye, but that can wait for after we’ve made contact. I don’t see Horus anywhere, or any sign of him, so hopefully I beat him here.

_“I’m not as scared as I am questioning your sanity, Liese,”_ Theta thinks.

“Don’t question what doesn’t exist, Theta,” I reply. They should’ve made aggressive noises at us by now. Some form of Cthonic insult, or a shot fired just beyond us would be welcome at this point. The _Spirit_ looks oddly dead, just floating inactive. Maybe they pissed off Nurgle and he killed them all with an awful stomach virus?

“Hail, Vengeful Spirit,” I finally say while tapping both my vox and ship channels. Surely someone will respond now. Theta is sending me a sad face. I’m not sure what to say.

_“Maybe they’ve gone somewhere?”_ he says, or asks, a combination. I consider our area. Too far from any planet to have used drop pods. So unless they left their flagship completely behind, unarmed and defenseless, they are on board, if in distress. Unfortunately for them, it’s not my job to protect them. Simply to make sure Abaddon doesn’t kill Horus again.

“Hail, Vengeful Spirit, this is High Inquisitor Liese Morn, please respond,” I say. Maybe they don’t care that I’m just a tiny little stormbird hovering near their gloriana. But maybe they will care when they realize it’s an Inquisitor. Angered response? They could just shoot at us? Let us know they aren’t dead. Hard to fight a war against dead people.

“Get the fuck away, Liese!” an angry voice—one I am all too familiar with—snarls over the vox.

“I will consider your request, Abaddon,” I reply and elicit a lovely chain of Cthonic curses. “But I’m here with a message for you specifically.”

“The hell do you want? Now is a really bad time, damn,” he responds.

“Horus is on the way to you, and he needs your help,” I answer. The vox goes silent for several moments.

“Did you say…Horus?”

I smile, take a deep breath, and place a hand on Theta’s helmet. “We have our way in, now we just have to hope for a way out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only major note I want to make here is that Theta belongs to a friend, I just borrowed him because he and Liese have a lovely history of purging heresy together.


	7. VII. 999. M41

My nose quit bleeding after about six minutes, but he made me sit there holding the towel on my face another six before he was satisfied. Now he’s sitting at the desk writing? I think. I’m not actually sure what he’s doing but I’m done being nosy about him. So I’ve curled up on his bed—yes, heresy—and decided I’ll take a nap and pretend that the Emperor will forgive what’s left of my soul.

“Emperor, forgive me,” I mumble and he stops writing. I pretend I am asleep as fast as I can, but I’m pretty sure he’s not fooled.

“He’s not particularly known for forgiving, actually,” Abaddon says, resuming his writing.

“To those trying to actively destroy the Imperium, I’d imagine not,” I blurt and he pauses again. Slowly he turns and looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Is that how you see it?”

I’m not sure if he’s asking because he cares or if he’s asking because he’s about to make some big point that he thinks will shake my life. I’m also not sure if I’m going to live thirty more minutes—he is known for killing people he’s been allied with for thousands of years over lesser differences. He is known for killing people in general. The man in front of me isn’t exactly known as kind and cuddly. The gentlest word for him is angry.

And yet a moment of wisdom, or perhaps self-preservation, kicks in and I make a small nod, but hold up my hand. “How should I see it?” I ask before he can unload a bolter in my skull.

He crosses his arms and leans back on the desk—not exactly sure how it is holding his weight—then looks at the ceiling. “I could give you a thousand answers, some religious, some purely based on war experience, and some just vengeful, but in truth, those are more covers for what we’re doing.”

Abaddon pauses again, then shrugs as he looks back at me. “A lot of us were picked and groomed as small young boys to become the perfect fighting machines in the Emperor’s great armies, led by his Primarchs, whom were rumored to be his sons. His affection towards them varied, of course. Some he doted on all the time, and some he simply acknowledged they existed then moved on. There were even two he eradicated because they didn’t meet his standards. If you survive long enough, we can go into that story another day. Those that did meet his standards, at least enough to be acknowledged, made up his Legions and War Council. There were also the Sisters and the Imperial Army, but they functioned at a different level then. Questions?”

Questions. Yeah, I have questions. About three million and seven, and no idea where to start. I stare at him, my mouth hanging open a little as I squeeze his pillow. He laughs lightly and stands up, stretching and walking to the door.

“Figure out what you want to ask, alright? I’m going to get you something to eat. Any preferences?”

The staring continues on my part and I suddenly remember I need to breathe to survive. After a gasp from mental overload, I shake my head and look at him again. He isn’t wearing armor now and doesn’t seem to intend to put it on. And as much as I can’t stand him, I want to repair the damned body suit so my arch-enemy at least looks somewhat elegant.

“Food, girl, what do you want to eat?” he asks more firmly.

“Rations are fine—” I start but he shakes his head.

“You’ll get plenty of that shit when you get to Terra. I am talking actual food. Meat, vegetables, pastries, wine, liquor, just name a food or drink that sounds good other than “rations” and I’ll provide.”

“Some…form of steak and vegetable? And water,” I say after a moment of consideration.

“And how do you want your steak cooked?” he asks. How the hell am I supposed to know? I’ve never had steak. I don’t even know what steak looks like. I don’t even know what the options for cooking steak are.

“…we’ll start with well-done, if you want it juicier next time, let me know. Not that it will lack flavor, just be a little tougher to chew because cooked more thoroughly. Alright, thirty minutes and I should be back. Figure out your questions or try and catch a nap. Don’t be nosy. I do hit,” Abaddon states as he walks out. The door slides shut behind him and clicks, letting me know it’s locked.

Questions, yeah. I could ask a million and still have ten million more to ask and never get anywhere. But who are the Primarchs? Cadia wasn’t particularly informed of any of them aside from Roboute Guilliman. But he isn’t exactly alive? Well he’s not dead, but…

Admittedly, acolytes aren’t permitted to learn history until their fifteenth year of proving themselves loyal and pure, so maybe I am just missing information. I honestly don’t know any other Primarch’s name. I’ve heard of a few Legions aside from the Black Legion. The World Eaters, the Emperor’s Children, and the Iron Warriors on the traitor side. The Ultramarines, Imperial Fists, Grey Knights, and Black Templars on the loyal side. But…are those even Legions? I thought they were chapters? Something about the Codex Astartes? I am so uninformed, and it bothers me. A lot.

Sitting here wondering isn’t going to answer my questions, and I was warned not to snoop. So, option three is try to sleep. I can at least acknowledge the bed is comfortable and curl up. Heresy is going to be the death of me, one way or another. I might as well get cozy with it.


	8. VIII. 999. M45

I have been permitted a single glass of water a day. The whippings last 15 minutes, every hour. The questioning is repetitive, and I give the same answers every time. They are not pleased that they are not getting more out of me, and I pity their growing anger. I was trained not to give anyone anything. I was taught to only provide what was necessary. Ordo Sicarius teaches well, too. It teaches that one day, you will raise your hand against your comrades as they fall to their own weaknesses. It teaches that you are a blade and your only shield. You do not balk at petty things like pain or fatigue. You do not cry over blood loss or vomiting. If your body fails, so be it. Your mind does not.

I won’t be so bold as to call these people amateurs, but they are certainly not trained interrogators in the same fashion that I was. It also intrigues me that they have small horns beneath their hoods. I wonder if they know I noticed as the whip cracks through the skin on my back again. I can feel the warmth of my lifeblood splatter over my torn flesh again, but I do not whimper. I simply breathe in and out, pacing myself with the lashing.

It angers them that I do not fear death, too. It is not possible to fear something you are immune to, fools. If you truly knew my secrets, truly knew my past, truly knew my heresy? Then you would not be trying to torture me in this manner. There are so many other more effective ways to strike at someone than with physical pain and insistent questions. There are so many other methods to dragging out answers than starvation and dehydration. When you are trying to kill something you perceive as a mythical beast, the first, most important step, is to do extensive research.

Your answers are there, fools, written in the ledgers and hidden in the ordos. Or perhaps you could try interrogating my allies of my situation. Your methods are primitive and foolish, like desperate children unable to comprehend how to pierce even a simple mind.

And it makes me wonder if you have your own to work with, infiltrators.


	9. IX. 999. M41

_It’s so warm and comfortable. Like home, even if I’m in the acolyte’s quarters. I know they said to leave as soon as we woke up, but the bed is so warm._

_“Get up, Acolyte Morn,” someone calls. “There’s not time for you to waste being lazy. I need a message delivered to your father.”_

_“Yessir, Inquisitor,” I mumble as I crawl out from under the blanket. It isn’t anything special, but it’s better than anything we’ve got in Papa’s barracks. We used to have so much more, before this Crusade of the Despoiler’s. The streets were safe a while. The people were happy, if nervous. We played games together, charging each other with heresy or purging the mutants with our various training swords. _

_But all that changed when the first drop pods started landing. The adults never questioned it; if anything, they said it was later than expected. Then they shoveled us to the barracks, or if we were old enough, to the guard training fields. They took a few of us aside for what they called “ritual testing.” Of all five of us, I was the only one not “removed from the testing areas.” Were my friends purged? Were they sent to train as guardsmen? I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll ever know. I do know that I don’t want to know. I can remember them as heroes, whether they were._

_But today I am working for the Inquisition. And today I will deliver a message to my father. It will be the first time I’ve seen him for nearly six months. I hope he’s well. The assault seems to be getting stronger yet we’ve heard the Black Legion is attacking other places in the system. Maybe they are using us as a diversion again. Or maybe they are just too thinly spread to cause real damage aside from the usual casualties. Is it wrong to hope that we’re just a diversion? Is it heresy?_

_“You will give this purity seal to your father, Acolyte. You are to return here immediately after completing the delivery. I’ve a mind to give you another task that will test your skills and prove your loyalty to The Emperor’s Will. Now go,” Master says as he hands me a seal. I do not question him, that is pointless. I simply pull on my cloak—the dust storms have been intense lately—and head towards the bunker I know my father was resting in._

_“Wake up, girl,” someone calls. I turn…_

And see a plate hovering over me. And a large shadow. I hear some irritated tapping before the plate is lowered and Abaddon sits beside me on the bed. On the plate itself is a massive slab of meat—as big as my head, at least—some diced potatoes, and a large pile of chopped green things. Maybe lettuce? Or something else. I’ve never seen any of this before.

“We didn’t have any small forks. Last time we had those we had an Emperor’s Children boarding party fascinated by pain, so, even if we still had them, they wouldn’t be safe to eat with. So…uh, I can tear it for you. Oh, I was later than expected, but you seemed to be sleeping well, so I didn’t bother you. Well, not until now. If you’re any longer waiting to eat, it’s going to be too cold. So…what do you want first?”

What the hell do I say to that? What the hell happened to the forks? What the hell I am choosing from to eat? What. The. Hell.

“…your options are grox-steak—beef is hard to come by even on raiding days—broth-boiled potatoes, and spinach. It’s a type of vegetable that’s easy to store. Still, like most, decays over time. Depending on which Legion or daemons are visiting, that can be a very rapid thing. But this is completely safe. Probably. It’s never killed me. Granted I’ve eaten a nurgling before and survived so. That may not be the best standard to go by.”

He’s explaining this like it’s a normal day. Like this is normal life. It might be normal for him. It might be normal for everyone on this ship. Did he just say he’s eaten a nurgling. And what happened to the damned forks!

I realize a moment late I blurted this out and he looks at me with a smug face. “You are too curious for your own good, little Inquisitor.”

He began tearing the meat into smaller pieces—bite-sized for him, I imagine, and still larger than I would care to put in my mouth—before starting his explanation. “As the Warmaster of Chaos, I am often required to do things that prove my value to the other followers of Chaos. In the case of the nurgling, Typhon wanted me to prove my loyalty to Nurgle. Or wanted me to explode. Or both, here, both is often an option. And so, there was an underdeveloped nurgling he was toting around. The first task was to kill it, and then he demanded I honor the corpse in the most natural way I could think of. Consuming an opponent is a sign of honor long passed down in many cultures…and a stupid concept, but it seemed natural. And so I ate the dead guy.”

I am so baffled as to why anyone would think eating an opponent of any type seems honorable. If I ever kill Abaddon, am I supposed to eat him? Is he supposed to eat the remains of Cadia? What happens if you kill a Tyranid or Ork and try to eat them? Doesn’t that just make more?

“Did you…get sick?” I ask. I can’t help being fascinated by this. I heard the chaotic people did extreme, stupid things, but I had no idea it went to this level.

“The Black Legion and all others on board were grateful I have my own bathroom,” he replies plainly. He looks at me over the plate, picks up a piece of steak, then considers and puts it back down and tears it in half.

“And the forks…?”

“The forks are probably permanent additions to the Emperor’s Children that were on board. Either in their genitalia, stomachs, embedded in their skin, or all of that. Truly I am grateful they kept them. One does not sterilize things that are removed from the followers of Slaanesh. Or Nurgle. Incineration is the only safe way to deal with those things. And that’s not always safe.”

They put the forks in their bodies, ok—wait what? They. Why are they even considered the Emperor’s Children? Why are they allowed to exist? Before I can ask, however, Abaddon’s finger is shoving a piece of meat in my mouth and he’s looking at me curiously. Determined not to choke, I start chewing and confess the flavor is amazing. I think my eyes show it too, as he almost smiles and watches me eat. I notice his finger lingering on my lips but let it go. He’s probably just a food fetishist. Whatever that means. If the Emperor’s Children can pierce their penises with forks, the Despoiler can be aroused by food.

“I see you like it,” Abaddon says, preparing another bite and pushing it into my mouth. The biggest problem right now is that he thinks I can eat the entire steak. I chew slower and nod to him but hold my hand up when he starts to put another piece in my mouth.

“I can’t eat but so much,” I say. He frowns a moment, then his hand moves over mine and puts it on the plate.

“Eat what you can. Because of the fork situation, eating with your hands is acceptable. If I’m not back by the time you’re done, just put the plate on the desk. There’s a situation on the bridge, nothing to concern yourself with. Go back to sleep if you want.”

I want to argue with him, learn more about his life and culture and learn about him in general. But he’s pulling on his full armor again and has a serious vibe going on. So, I sit on his bed and eat his cooking. Just as he’s starting to leave the room my manners kick in and I mumble a "thank you." He stops briefly and looks at me with the first genuine smile I’ve ever seen on his face.

“You’re welcome, Liese.”


	10. X. 997. M45

At some point I should probably tell Theta my history with the Despoiler and his Legion. I’m not entirely sure he even knows I’m Cadian. I know he doesn’t know about my interactions with Iskandar Khayon, and that he doesn’t know about every trial I’ve been on. And I’m absolutely sure he’d wonder openly how I’m still alive, look around nineteen, and was present for the explosion of my home world. Life extenders are great. But they don’t do what has happened for me. Unfortunately, I don’t really have a great memory of what happened to make me essentially a Perpetual. Something about falling, a Necron pylon, a green glow, and…maybe I dreamt all of that. Maybe I was just born one?

_“You are thinking a lot since we got permission to board. Should I start a maintenance cycle, pretend I’m completely an arco flagellant, and drive the ship back if they don’t shoot it down?” _Theta asks.

“I’m sure there are Inquisitors who would appreciate an arco driving a ship from the outskirts of the Eye to Terra. Other than me, that is. I don’t know who they are, nor do I know if they actually exist, but there is always hope that someone out there would adopt you. Without lobotomy,” I say. I’m waiting impatiently for clearance to teleport in. Most of the time I’d just go but this is the flagship of Chaos Undivided. My presence is a threat. Not following their rules gets rid of any use I might provide them. Female or not.

_“Tyrus would tolerate me. I get along well with Simeon. And on the bright side, I probably wouldn’t care about the lobotomy after the fact. Compliance and all that,” _Theta replies.

“It’s unusual for them to be this slow,” I mumble. My mind gets a dozen question marks and I sigh before responding. “Yes, I’ve done this before. Maybe Abaddon started remodeling as fast as possible to prepare for Horus. Or started baking him a cake.”

_“At the risk of sounding like a complete heretic, I want to taste Slaaneshi chocolate.”_

“I’ll get you a muffin,” I say, laughing. Theta doesn’t have a lot of control over his mouth, hence the mental connection. But he can still taste. Not as well, he’s told me. Losing his scent of smell really affected flavors. Sweet things, though, such as sweet breads, chocolates, and soft fruits are mostly the same. If he didn’t go entirely murder-crazed-berserk at least once a week, he’d probably outweigh most High Lords. And I know some of them outweigh astartes, except not muscles. Or height. Or armor. Just nice, fat, chunky excuses for politicians. While people less than a mile below them starve to death or get shot—if lucky—for stealing food. I’m not entirely sure what Horus’s logic was for all of the Heresies, but I wouldn’t have wanted to listen to a bunch of lazy fat guys either if I had been him. Admittedly, not all High Lords are lazy and fat. It’s just the image that comes to my mind.

There is static over my vox and I wait a moment to see if it will resolve.

_“I fuckin’ know this is the worst absolute time, Shamsiel. Send him to the docks. I’ll meet him there after I grab a whore from the teleportarium.”_

Cthonic, Abaddon, giving orders and again forgetting to cut off his vox connections. Thanks, Abby. I’m a whore now. I am sure you didn’t intend me to hear that. But it’s good to know where I stand in your life. Higher than most women, but still, at least label me a prostitute or courtesan.

_“You haven’t told me everything that’s going on, then?”_ Theta asks, but kindly. I smile and nod at him, sending a glyph that promises I will explain everything safe as soon as possible.

_“I can grab her for you, Boss,” _another voice teases in Cthonic. Nazu, I believe. Last time I talked to him, he hadn’t finished his implant surgeries. Sounds rougher now, though, so I’m guessing he’s not only finished, but seen some combat.

_“Mine,”_ Abaddon growls.

“And if I’m yours, how exactly am I a whore?” I ask, ready for the conversation to be over. There is laughter from Shamsiel and Nazu—sometimes I think the only reason they exist is to mock their Legion leader—and Abaddon punches something.

_“Means Abby’s a pimp,”_ Nazu states before shouting. He was apparently between Abaddon and the teleportarium.

_“You can board—fuckin’—ahem,” _he clears his throat before switching back to Gothic. “You can board now, Liese. Don’t do anything stupid. I’m waiting for you.”

I nod to Theta before activating the panel and motioning for him to step in. “I’m bringing my arco, Theta Chi. He’s harmless unless you threaten me.”

“He needs to remain harmless, threat or not,” Abaddon hisses.

He’s in a lovely mood, truly. I don’t comment and instead teleport us over, staggering slightly as our bodies disperse and rematerialize in front of Abaddon the Despoiler. Theta sends me a few glyphs asking when a good time to panic starts and I just send him back a smiley face.

“You’re still really short,” is the first comment Abaddon makes.

“And you’re still really rude,” I reply. He growls at me and grabs my arm, tugging me to a relatively isolated corner.

“You need to leave, and you need to take Horus with you,” he states, voice low and his gold eyes looking around. Something’s definitely wrong. And I’m pretty sure I’m not getting answers.

“You’re going to have to talk to Horus and convince him to leave his ship,” I state quietly.

“It isn’t his anymore.”

“We can save the drama for the reunion,” I whisper, trying to remain calm. Abaddon has the potential to be a toddler in an oversized body, and right now he’s demonstrating that. Very much “everything is mine because I said so” mode.

“It’s not safe,” he growls again, his grip a little tighter on my arm. I look up at him and place a finger on his lower lip.

“There’s a lot not safe, Abby. Me even being here is not safe for a million reasons, regardless of whatever is going on with your legion. Calm down. Let me help where I can, and let Horus help where he can, alright? You’re not in this alone unless you force everyone else out.”

He stares down at me and his gaze alone makes me feel small. His grip loosens, though his other hand holds my other arm and he leans down and kisses me. I can feel Theta staring, and about twenty question glyphs later I decide to ignore him and kiss back. I know it’s heresy. I’ve known it was heresy a long time. I get it. But there’s more to this whole war than just heretics and loyalists. If I have to kiss the Despoiler to get all the information…I will. It wouldn’t be the first time. We’ve done more.

_“I can explain later, Theta, I swear.”_

At least, I think I can.


	11. XI. 999. M41

I did in fact fall asleep. I think I was only out for an hour? Maybe two. I honestly don’t have any clue. The room is empty aside from the bed, me, and the desk. Oh, and the plate. I should move it to the desk before the Despoiler gets back so he won’t think I was disobedient. It’s not that I want to follow his orders, it’s just that I don’t want him to kill me before I have a chance to report on the Chaotic Astartes.

So I get up and tote the plate to the desk and see what he was writing. Or rather, drawing. It looks something like an Aquila, but there’s something different about it. Halos?

Or…are those. Oh, oh _that_ is heresy. He put the Chaos Undivided star as a halo for the heads of the Aquila, made both heads have eyes _and_ tear drops, and then shaped the wings so that they look rugged and torn. I am not foolish enough to call it art, but I will grant myself the right to call it creative. After all, if murder, torture, and military tactics can be creative, why can’t heresy?

But before I get hit again, it’s time to go crash on the bed. His bed. Emperor save me, please. Or smite me. If only I’d been on Cadia, my soul would still be sacred. Cadia…my heart feels heavy. The fortress I called home, shattered and nothing but a bitter memory of defeat. My throat tenses up and my eyes begin to water, just in time for footsteps—a lot of them—to move past the door. Biting my lip and inhaling sharply, I half-hope that maybe, somehow, someone from the Imperium is raiding the Vengeful Spirit. Instead I hear something like gargling and laughing mixed in a blender with gravel and mjod.

_Don’t be nosy,_ I tell myself. Not because I’m not curious. Because anything that makes that kind of noise has no good intentions and what remains of my soul doesn’t deserve such torment.

Now there is laughing of slightly more normal variety. And talking in a language I don’t recognize. Maybe it’s that Cthonic the Despoiler was talking about earlier. I’ve never heard of Cthonia. Must be in some other sector, if it’s even still around. If I survive and am not immediately executed for heresy, I’ll research it. Big if.

The door slides open and I feel my cheeks turning red. Abaddon is wearing nothing but loose pants that sag around his hips. And his body, scarred yet strangely smooth, is slightly wet. Do Astartes sweat? The door slides shut automatically, and I take a deep gulp. Please. Please let this all be a nightmare. Maybe I’ll wake up on Cadia, Black Crusade Thirteen never happening…

“You alright?” he asks, and I notice he’s looking at me. I can’t speak. I can’t do anything except shiver. Hopefully he’ll just shrug it off and go about his business. Wiping out populations is normal for Chaos. I’m just suffering a little traumatic memory. It’s not his business. Then I feel his hand on my thigh and before I can think I slap him.

And he lets it connect. Instead of laughing or just crushing me, he stares. And I rub my hand because I think it might’ve been gentler to punch a wall.

“You’re not alright, then,” he says slowly. His body is tense, and I can see him fighting. Perhaps he’s fighting the need to kill me.

“No, and I’m not sorry,” I spit. His eyes close and he takes in a deep breath, holding it before letting out. He stands up and walks to the wall, then in a motion faster than I can see, pulls his hand back and punches. The wall is dented, the metal groaning and several beeps sounding almost in disapproval. But machines—not even ships—can’t approve or disapprove things. Not unless they are Abominable Intelligence, and that doesn’t seem likely. It then hits me—and thankfully it was the thought and not the Despoiler—that he just dented an adamantium wall with nothing but his fist.

“You shouldn’t be sorry,” he finally growls, then lets out another breath. “I kidnapped you after shoving you into a Necron Pylon base, then turned your homeworld into dust. By my orders, if not my hands, many of your people died. Those that escaped are now mentally scarred by what I’ve done. Their hearts are heavy. But that, little Inquisitor, is the price of war. What sin did your people commit to the heretics of the Eye? The same so many committed to the Emperor in the days of the Crusade. They were in the way. Is it right? No. Is it justified? Answer that for yourself. My answer isn’t one you’ll like.”

I watch him, fear gripping my chest. I want to run away. I want to hide. I want to scream and yet I still can’t move. I can barely breathe. The anger I felt just seconds ago is gone. The man—no, the fallen Angel of the Emperor in front of me has the power to rip me apart with nothing but his hands. He has the anger of a thousand fights inside him, the pain of watching millions, perhaps billions die, and the denial of what he fought for so long being added to his heroism. He is a monster to the Imperium, and in his eyes, only sees himself doing exactly what he was trained to do. Something in me agrees. He’s wrong but…he is doing exactly that. He is fighting an unending war with the ferocity implanted in him when he turned from boy to superhuman. I am terrified, and yet somehow, I am sympathetic.

“I…didn’t mean…to anger you, I just. Acted without. Thinking?” I say, words shaking.

“I’m not angry, girl. If I was angry, you’d be dead.”

His words send another chill up my spine. He’s not boasting. He’s not posturing or exaggerating. He is telling the truth as plainly as he can. And he’s right.

“I am frustrated, not angry. When I was on the Mournival, I was known as the choleric one. I would yell before talking, hit before yelling, and fight before listening. I have never been seen as a patient man, at least not in conversation. I can be patient, but you have to prove yourself worthy of my patience. Horus was one of the few that earned it.”

I take a moment to compose myself before my lips part to ask the question. “You knew the arch-traitor, Horus?”

“They really don’t teach history, do they?” he asked, shaking his head. “Horus was my Primarch, my gene-father, my favorite teacher…and my best friend.”

I don’t really know what to say. I didn’t know. I’m not sure why they didn’t teach that. Wouldn’t that just make the Black Legion look worse? They were the children of Horus, so they were evil by inheritance. They were natural heretics.

“Was the meal good?” he asks, seemingly out of nowhere. I remember after a few seconds that he enjoys cooking. And that he likely learned to cook to calm himself down.

“Yeah, it was…the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” I answer. He sits next to me on the bed again, seemingly back to calm.

“I have to ask,” he starts, then pauses. “And I won’t hurt you if you refuse. It works for me either way, but I have to ask. Would you leave the Imperium behind and join Chaos?”

“Absolutely not,” I answer, eliciting a chuckle from him.

“I thought not, but I wasn’t given a choice to not ask,” he says, wry smile on his face. “There are very few who are truly loyal to the Emperor these days. For you, it may be that you are too young to know better, for a few, it’s just that stubborn loyalty. And while I could prod or torture you to join us, instead…I offer this. Do not be afraid to change. But do it on your own will. Don’t change for someone else. Ultimately, if I were a mortal and could do things over again…I would follow my heart more instead of my leaders.”

Throne help me, this man is confusing. They say women are confusing? They haven’t met this guy. Join chaos! Except don’t. Unless it is what you want. Don’t be against being loyal. But don’t be against changing. The _hell_ are you saying, Abaddon.

“I have a confession to make,” he says, again, seemingly out of nowhere.

“I doubt it will save you,” I state flatly.

“If I need saving, I assure you, you’ll be the first to know,” he taunts. Then I notice how close he is to me. Not just sitting beside me, nearly sitting on me. My heart beats a little faster when I realize what his confession might be. One of his fingers runs over my cheek, then pauses on my chin. I look at him, his eyes partially closed as he looks down at me.

“You had a confession?” I whisper. He smiles and puts his other hand on my lower back. He pulls me into his lap. I can’t breathe at all. I know what he wants. I should’ve known from the start why he kept me in his room. Females aren’t common on Astartes ships. But size. Size isn’t going to work. I don’t care what he uses, if he goes all the way, if he—

“You’ve earned my patience,” he states before kissing me. I can’t refuse, there is no point. And heresy that it is, he tastes a lot better than the steak he cooked me.


	12. XII. 999. M45

Each time they strike my flesh, the splatter of my body’s heat over the few inches of untorn skin, they only make their lives worse. I continue to focus on my breathing, ignoring the pounding in my chest. It hurts. I breathe steady, listening for anything that would be a hint to the origin of their heresy. I close my eyes, refuse to cringe. I keep myself steady, teeth lightly pinching my lips together. The metal is cool for almost a second before it rips into me. The chains jingle when I am flogged. I can feel the person behind me growing tired. Another will come take their place. As it has been for the past hour now.

“Now, now, hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to hit a lady?” a melancholic voice taunts as bolter shells tear through the darkness behind me. It is familiar, but that’s not my concern right now. Instead, I twist myself around and slide my left wrist free of the manacles. The steady pace of gunfire gives me enough time to wiggle my right wrist free as well. The ankles are not something I can slide out of, and I don’t have a lockpick on me. I look up to a crested helm adorned with hydra heads and silently nod my thanks.

“Trust me to shoot the chains off?” he—Alpharius, to put it simply—asks. As for which Alpharius? No idea. But it’s Alpharius.

“If you trust you, I trust you,” I say. He pauses and I can feel those hidden eyes calculating. He is curious about me. And he’s pleased with the answer I gave, because after that pause he laughs lightly.

“Finally an Inquisitor that sees there are more threats to this galaxy than Chaos,” he states. “I’m not going to risk the metal not taking the hit well, so give me a second.”

He moves his hands over the back of his armor and pulls out a small haft. I watch, interested, but not judging. It is not my place to judge. It never has been. I am an actor of what I perceive as the Emperor’s Will, but I am not the Emperor’s Will. I am his servant. And I am certain that now he has returned, he would be irritated to hear even that.

The haft then grows, pieces of white metal forming into a spear. The Pale Spear, to be specific. It chimes like a thousand, tiny, hollow pieces of metal in a summer’s breeze. That means he’s not just Alpharius, but one of two specific Alpharius. The Primarch, or his identical twin Primarch, Omegon, who I theorize is the only member of Alpha Legion who doesn’t go by Alpharius when on their ship. Names are easy to remember, at least.

“It might echo,” he states, swinging the spear at my ankle. Briefly I feel it tear the skin. Then I look down and notice there is no cut or additional blood. The chain is severed completely, and I am almost free. I don’t notice the ringing of the metal around the room until he swings at the other ankle. The same pain, but no wound, and it leaves quickly enough.

“I won’t waste time asking who has come to save me, but I will be brave enough to ask _why,” _I say as I force myself to my feet. I haven’t eaten in three days. They stopped giving me fluids yesterday morning. My body, trained for such, is still exhausted.

“Then allow me to answer both questions for you, Inquisitor,” he says, pulling off his helm. Beautiful, thoughtful, dangerous teal eyes glisten from behind copper skin. No hair, no definitive features that mark him as special aside from those eyes. His eyes show all the mind of a great man—greater than any mortal, greater than any Astartes. My theory was right. I’ve been rescued by a Primarch of the Alpha Legion.

“I am Alpharius, and I saved you because it is not just the Emperor’s Will to do so, but my own.”

Is he telling the truth? Most likely. I’ll never know for certain. But that doesn’t matter. I’m safe now, as an aquamarine gauntlet steadies me, helping me walk out of the prison cell I’ve called home for a week and three days. My eyes squint as I see true light for the first time in a while, and I stagger, only for him to catch me.

“Thank you, Alpharius,” I whisper as exhaustion takes over.

“You’re welcome, Liese,” he answers, picking me up gently and moving towards the Palace. The Emperor protects, and so do his sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually finishes up one arc of Liese's story in M45. The entire story is coming to a close in just a few chapters, but there might be another story or series later that deals more with Liese's Inquisitorial career. She goes against the mold as an Inquisitor in general, so it might be fun to play with exactly how she breaks the rules.
> 
> Also.
> 
> I am Alpharius.


	13. XIII. 999. M41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes allusions to Non-con. I personally don't write it out in great detail because I don't want to appear to romanticize it. It is a serious topic and not everyone gets a good ending. And while I don't want to offend or trigger anyone, I have to include it as part of Liese's story because it is, as is shown in this chapter, essential to how she decides to act in the future.

I woke up about ten minutes ago, but I’m not sure where I am. I’m not in the Despoiler’s room anymore. Whatever I am laying on is cold and there is a continuous beep somewhere over my head. My eyes refuse to focus, and any time I move it hurts. Yet I can’t remember why, or at least, it hurts more to try and remember why.

“Has it occurred to you, Ezekyle, that the girl is _mortal?” _an irritated, flat voice demands.

“That isn’t relevant, Zycius,” Abaddon responds.

“You fucked her unconscious, for lack of better medical terminology, and then brought her here with the statement that ‘you think you might’ve broken something.’ And it is not relevant that she stands at just under six feet, while you stand at almost nine and a half. You weigh nearly a ton. She weights barely one-hundred fifty pounds. Is the math of sheer physics here also irrelevant?”

I hear cursing, a sputtering “maybe it isn’t!” and then a firm slam of metal on a nearby table. My mind isn’t quite able to process what I’m learning.

“How is she even alive, that’s what I want to know,” Zycius hisses.

“The Emperor protects or some shit!” Abaddon spits.

“You sure as hell don’t protect or use protection!” Zycius snarls back.

“You don’t get to tell me how to have sex!” Abaddon yells, his fury making the room hot. But why are they arguing about this while I’m laying here on an operating table? Isn’t bedside manner important?

“Why are you even concerned with having sex when you have a war to win, you idiot!” Zycius snaps, something clanking and a liquid pouring.

“Because she’s nice!”

I open my eyes and look at the ceiling, either in exasperation or the befuddled realization that what hurt was where Abaddon had penetrated. I can remember his heat, vaguely, as his body pushed mine onto the bed. I remember the pain a lot, the stretch, the look in his eyes, almost sorry, but excited. I tried to say something then, when his lips pushed on mine, silencing me as my body became one with his.

I…don’t remember pleasure from the event, but I also know I didn’t fight it. Not that I could’ve fought it. Part of me was curious? I don’t know. I can’t know what really happened, but I know that now I hurt. A lot.

“Nice. You’ve crossed the line between sex and rape, and you did it because some woman you found on a blown-up planet was ‘nice.’ Horus would be so proud of you, I’m sure.”

“Don’t you dare!” Abaddon hisses and I hear a loud crash to my left. I turn my head nervously to see him, arms and hands locked with an Apothecary—apparently Zycius. They are both cold and furious, and neither one of them looks to back down any time soon. I’ll just lay here and hurt, then. Maybe they’ll accidentally kill me in their fight.

“Her pelvic bone is broken in three places, her collarbone in two, she has internal bleeding, and tearing from where you shoved yourself in. This doesn’t include the bruising from your hands, where you apparently clenched your fingers together as you ejaculated. She will survive,” Zycius states. His tone loses the flatness, and he almost seems to be lecturing. “But it would be more merciful to shoot her in the head if you think to continue to use her as your cocksleeve, Ezekyle Abaddon.”

“Fix her, dammit!” Abaddon screams and for a moment, the room seems to tremble. He pushes himself away and storms out, hitting the doorframe as he leaves.

“If you wouldn’t break everything you touch, my job would be easier, boy,” Zycius growls after him before looking at me. There’s not really any sympathy in his eyes. I am, after all, disposable to him. He has seen many die. He’s killed many, either under the name of the Emperor’s Mercy, or because they couldn’t serve Chaos anymore. The honors on his armor are from ages long past, long forgotten. And to him, they mean nothing. I can see it in his face. Life is not about honor in those eyes. Life is about doing the best he can to stop more death. It’s not pain, though. It is his frame of mind. A problem to solve. An error to reconcile. I silently stare back, wondering if he ever knew the Emperor while he was in his prime. If the hands that this apothecary uses were trained by the Master of Mankind.

“How old are you, girl?” he asks, walking over to the sink and washing off his gauntlets.

“I…am nineteen,” I whisper. It hurts to breathe.

“Born on Cadia?”

“Yes, I was there my whole life until…” my voice catches and I feel my eyes watering. I can’t hide the internal pain anymore. And I don’t care. I shiver and a sob escapes my lips. He doesn’t comment, and it makes me feel even lonelier. I start crying, slamming my eyes shut as tears leak down my cheeks. I really am alone. I am the only one on this ship that cares about the Imperium as the home for humanity. I am the only female I’ve seen here. I’m the only prisoner from Cadia that I know of. I am a toy for the Black Legion, regardless of whether I deliver my message to that damned psyker on Terra. I would’ve been better to die on Cadia. To be a part of that dust. To be an echo of nothingness, a lost memory. Because even then, I wouldn’t be alone.

“You hurt inside and out, yes, but the wounds will heal,” I hear Zycius say. “You will recover from the loss of your home. You will recover from the wounds of Abaddon’s affection. I will see to the latter personally, but let me ask you, young Cadian. What will you do with the scars?”

I scream out in pain again, begging for the world to crush me. Zycius does not stop me, instead just watching. He is neither pleased nor bothered by my wailing. It is just a fact.

After nearly twenty minutes of incoherent bawling, I finally regain my sanity. He is still watching, waiting. I’ve never been comforted by a lack of emotion until now. He is not judging; I am not his charge to provide therapy. I am his patient to heal of external wounds. I am neither important nor am I a waste of his time. I am simply here, and that is fine.

“Have you an answer to my question?” he asks, voice flat and clinical.

“What…will I do with the scars?” I ask, looking at him as he prepares a few scalpels and some form of thick, gooey substance.

“Yes, that was my question.”

I think about it now, and the tears dripping from my face seem to dry. The rasp in my throat doesn’t cut quite as deeply. Breathing is a little easier even though I know he’s about to cut into my body. I notice the IV bag above me and realize part of my relaxation is drug-induced, but I assure myself my mind is calming itself too.

“I’m going to use them…as a map to save the galaxy,” I mutter, feeling my head spin and clarity fade. I hear a soft chuckle above me as the bag shifts in a black-clad hand.

“Amusing that your map starts at your heart, Inquisitor. Rest.”


	14. XIV. 997. M45

Shoving Abaddon away might be a simple task for another Astartes, but I am, in fact, a tiny woman with no leverage in this moment. The thought to kick him the crotch is tempting, but I don’t want to be a pile of dust at my funeral. I’d at least like some form of corpse to remain. An arm, leg, part of my face—something would be nice. So, I do what any sensible Inquisitor being kissed by the Despoiler would do. I bite his lower lip then pull away.

“Wh…” he stops protesting when he hears several dozen feet running towards him. His immediate reaction is to draw his weapons but stops and looks at the younger Black Legion members approaching.

_“Sir, Prim…erm. Lord?” _they stop. I realize their dilemma. They aren’t sure what to call Horus. I’m not sure what I’d call him, either, if I were in their oversized metallic boots.

_“Spit it out,” _Abaddon hisses.

_“Horus demands you come to him and explain yourself,”_ the tallest one whispers. The twin bolters from the Talon waste no time removing his eyes through the back of his skull. I notice Theta step back, and notice the other Black Legion members taking care to give Abaddon space. I don’t move. I’m not moving until I’m told to move. Something is _very_ wrong on the Vengeful Spirit and Abaddon is _very_ nervous. Then I feel my mental connection to Theta humming and I tune in.

_“What’s wrong?”_ I ask. He doesn’t look at me physically, but mentally I can see that he’s anxious too.

_“My sensors are picking up a lot of really strange heat patterns. Blips, maybe. They flare up, then they are gone. Doesn’t seem normal. Not that standing on the flagship of Chaos, watching the Despoiler go from lusty to lunatic, and organizing a meeting between said Despoiler and the Arch-heretic is, in any way, normal. Not even for us.”_

I bite my lower lip trying not to grin. _“You forgot that the Arch-heretic is essentially a zombie and that Abaddon forgot what Legion he’s in. Send the records of those heat blips?”_

He does, his chainsword arm tapping the ground lightly. I look through what he’s picked up and the desire to grin quickly fades away. The flickers are human shaped, and they are moving throughout the entire ship. They try to force anyone they encounter to absorb them, presumably to take control. No one is accepting, though. The forms appear somewhat chaotic, but I can’t look into that right now as we have taken to following Abaddon to a part of the _Spirit_ I don’t know that I’ve visited.

“Abaddon, where are we going?” I ask, trying to keep pace. It is frequent that Astartes forget mortals, well, aren’t Astartes. Although, if his ship is possessed, I can’t really blame him for not being concerned with how fast I walk.

When one of the Emperor’s angels is nervous—be he fallen or loyal—it makes everyone around wary. I feel a chill run up my spine as he pushes open a door, a crescent moon behind a wolf etched into the silver.

Silver? That was one of the colors of the Sons of Horus. One of the colors of the Luna Wolves before them. Has this area been preserved that long?

“Don’t touch anything. This place is beyond you,” Abaddon states.

“And where is this place? Or what is it called?” I ask, polite, slightly winded, and very impressed at how clean this area is. Most of the _Vengeful Spirit_ is covered in some form or rust, a little blood in the corners, various other cuts and dents in the metals, the wooden areas chipped or scraped free of their original décor. This area—not just a room, it seems there are six rooms past the main lounge—is pristine. And there are two servitors going around to make sure any form of dirt is purged. A few servo-skulls hover in the area, focused on the main door. He’s serious. He doesn’t want anyone in here without permission.

_“Feels almost…well, at risk of sounding like a heretic again, holy,” _Theta sends. I send him back a nodding face glyph. Being a heretic is easier to swallow when the alternative is swallowing a bolter shell.

“This is the Hall of the Mournival,” Abaddon says quietly once he’s certain no one else is present. “The Garden of Oath is through there.”

He points at a door that has a realistic etching of a dire wolf pack, vine carvings making up the doorframe, and the window at the top glowing like a moon. Even though it is indoors, it feels like I’m staring at Luna from the highest building on Terra. I am trying to remember the Garden of Oath. Closest thing I’ve got is from that Grey Knight I work with on occasion. His name is Loken? He spends most of his time tending a garden. It has a similar glow; he showed me once. A lot of moon symbols and wolves etched into the glass around it. But I’m not sure he _was_ completely connected to the Luna Wolves. I’d ask Abaddon but I don’t really want to risk bringing up old battle-brothers to him right now. His temper is still a force that can destroy planets if he’s mad enough. I would know.

“_Have him meet where I pinged, and escort him, dammit,_” Abaddon hisses into his vox. I can sense anger on the other side, and before I can ask more questions I am pushed onto a couch.

“Sit. Don’t make comments. Tell your thing to go stand in the corner.”

“My thing is an arco flagellant and his name is Theta Chi. You can call him Theta. And you can _ask him nicely_ to go stand in the corner, else I am going to make you go stand in a corner.”

Abaddon stares at me a moment, his left eyebrow up. Theta sends me a glyph that is somewhere between dying and hysterical laughter.

_“You just threatened to put the leader of Chaos Undivided in timeout, Liese.”_

Yes, yes I did. And I _meant_ it. I send Theta a thumbs up. I am a very, very ferocious woman and everyone needs to understand that. I will spank an Astartes if it will make them behave. I’m not going to force change on anyone other than myself, but we can all be polite about this damned war.

Then I hear heavy footsteps and hear the door slide. Abaddon no longer seems to think anything or anyone else exists as he stares at the door. I turn to look…and realize I have no idea what I expected when Horus walks in. His steps are firm, his gaze steady, his shoulders heavy, and Throne help me he is _tall._

I admit I have never spoken with a Primarch of any faith. At least not in person. Lord Commander Guilliman sends a few reports to my office on occasion, but I’ve never actually met him. My hands are trembling—such power and poise should not exist. My heartbeat is going faster as he walks closer, and I hear Theta sit firmly in his appointed corner. I wish I was in a corner too.

I watch Horus, arch-heretic, murderer of millions, former Warmaster of the Imperium, former favored son of the Emperor of Mankind, walk to the center of the room. I see him lock eyes with Ezekyle Abaddon, Warmaster of Chaos, former First Captain of the Sons of Horus, before that the Luna Wolves, and favored son of Horus Lupercal. I hear the silent exchange between them. The anger, the relief, the confusion, and the thousands of unresolved issues echo in the silence. An heir, 15 thousand years in refining himself, stares into the eyes of the man who provided the foundation for his legacy. And most of all, a father reunited with his son.

We wait, letting them talk with their eyes. This is a historical moment, regardless of what else happens. If one strikes the other—should they fight, Theta and I are dead—it will determine many things about how the galaxy moves forward. I am a child of the Emperor, and for him I would die a thousand deaths. But I am honored to witness this moment in the history of Chaos. To see that regardless of stature, regardless of past, regardless of future, men are still men.

The silence is starting to make more of me tremble, or perhaps it’s the realization of how meaningless I am in the grand scheme of things. I bite my lips together to keep my lips from chattering. Then it happens. History happens.

Horus salutes Abaddon, crisp, firm, as though they had never been apart. Honor before all else, something that echoes through our hearts. Without hesitation, Abaddon salutes back, equally as crisp. They don’t speak yet, and I swallow hard. I can hardly breathe right now, my eyes watering slightly from the unspoken pain.

“Warmaster Ezekyle Abaddon,” Horus states slowly, his lips curling into a soft smile. “It certainly sounds good, even for a man that never wanted to be a king.”

“Warmaster Horus Lupercal still sounds better,” Abaddon replies. There is more silence, and I wonder if they are calculating how to fight. Or debating who should get the first attack. Then Horus places a hand on Abaddon’s shoulder, firm, yet comforting.

“We’ve much to discuss, I’ve much to catch up on, and I have a request from the Emperor. But first, Ezekyle, I would have you tell me the story of how you became the leader of my former Legion. How you took my failure and turned it into a dream for those exiled by the Emperor of Mankind. I would hear it from you, no one else. I want to know the story of how my favorite son now rivals and controls some of my fiercest brothers.”

Abaddon looks at Horus a long moment before placing his own hand over the gaping hole in Horus’s armor. There is a flash of pain between them both—something I cannot truly understand—before he does something I’ve never seen him do before. Abaddon wraps his arms around Horus and buries his face in his Primarch’s chest, then begins to cry. His entire body quakes with each sob, and Horus says nothing. Instead, he holds his son. The Despoiler is no longer in charge of the chaotic forces, no longer a king, and he’s weeping in joy.

_“We’ve done as the Emperor asked, Theta. We now return to our ship and go home. This is not our place in history. It is only our place to report and wait for the aftermath.”_

_“This is…beautiful chaos, isn’t it?” _Theta asks, quietly moving to my side.

_“This is a path to redemption. What we don’t know is who is doing the redeeming, Chaos or the Imperium. We’ll know soon enough.”_

We walk out silently, not even noticed. The Black Legion Astartes are all quiet, tuned into their voxes as they listen to their leader cry. As we start up the ramp, a choked sob echoes through my ears and my heart.

_“Don’t ever…ever leave me, again.”_


	15. XV. 999. M41

I’ve been in the _Vengeful Spirit’s _apothecarium for three days now, learning how to walk without my body completely rejecting me. Zycius is a very blunt individual. Less refined than Abaddon. But he isn’t nearly as emotional. He doesn’t panic if something goes wrong with my recovery. He simply notes it and works to fix it. Abaddon is going to visit today. I’m not sure I’m excited about that. I am not entirely mad at him for his impulses towards me, but the pain is awful and, as Zycius has reminded him on the vox several times, he should’ve asked before doing anything.

“So, Inquisitor,” Zycius states. He hasn’t bothered calling me by my name. I am his patient, not his ally, not his responsibility. To call me by name is to make things personal. He can’t be personal and do his job properly.

“Yes?” I ask, steadying myself on the edge of the table.

“You’re leaving today. Thought I’d let you know.”

I look up at him, confused. I’ve been on board the _Spirit_ nearly two weeks. It almost feels like home. But now I’m leaving? I suppose that was the entire plan.

“You have to deliver my message,” a voice growls from the door. I look and see Abaddon standing there, in full armor, holding a strange panel.

“How am I going to get to Terra?” I ask quietly. “I don’t know how to get there; I don’t even know how to fly a ship.”

He shakes his head and holds up the panel. Because that’s going to explain to me exactly what I’m supposed to do. Zycius looks at him over me and holds up a hand.

“Explain, Abaddon. She isn’t used to our technology or use of warp magic.”

Emotionless doctor understands everything. Except emotions. And I nod quietly, noting the pain in my hips is almost gone. I remember Zycius mentioning something about “was it really necessary to put that there,” when looking at my back. I didn’t comment, but I’m a little curious to what he meant. I’ll ask once Abaddon explains his grand scheme. I’ll deliver the message for him, and then I will take the Emperor’s Will to everyone. I won’t be a missionary or a judge, but I will learn the story. All of it. I will understand both sides. And the Universal Truth, something greater than either Chaos or the Imperium—heresy that it is—will be revealed when it wants to. I will purge the heretics when there is no other way to save them. I will fight for goodness and rightness. I will not pick a side, only my path, consequences be damned. I do not fear anymore. I do not care about the pain. I simply have to do what I can to make the grim a little more bearable and the darkness a little brighter.

“We’re going to teleport you and a ship we stole from Cadia—gods cannot explain why Alpha Legion stole a ship from Cadia—to somewhere in the Solar Sector.”

“Gods can’t explain why Alpha Legion does anything,” Zycius mumbled. “I’ve got money riding on Alpha Legion not being able to explain why they do anything, either.”

“Alpha Legion?” I ask, realizing how new I am to this whole war.

“That’s…a really long story that you can make up on your own when you encounter them. You will. You might not know it’s them. They might help you. They might kill you. But they are there.”

I blink and look at Zycius who just nods. There’s no explanation offered other than that. Alpha Legion sounds like a bunch of bored people who do whatever they want. It’s entertaining to think of an entire Legion based on whims. Astartes culture is so fascinating. I think there’s an ordo that focuses on them? I’ll know soon.

“So, you can take your Cadian Stormbird and go to Terra. With all the Warp tears opening and closing now, no one will think too weirdly of it. I’m sure you’ll be interrogated. But you can survive that. Get my message to Iskandar. And then do whatever the hell you want…but be warned. Once you leave this ship, you’re an enemy.”

That’s…his tone changed. I’m his enemy? He just had sex with me four days ago. And now I’m an enemy?

“You have a really fucked up concept of dating, Abaddon,” I mutter. And then he blushes and turns away. Zycius barks a laugh and ducks into the storage room.

“Dating. I kidnapped you, I treated you—”

“You kissed me and I’m pretty sure you don’t run around screwing every person you capture. You said I earned your patience. You also attacked me with cake and opened my eyes to the fact that every story has at least two sides. In this galaxy? I’d say every story has at least two dozen sides. But we have two sides colliding right here, right now. And you’re going to stand there and listen to mine, got it?”

He nods silently, his eyes wide. I stand up with all the pride I can muster and walk over to him and slam my finger into his chest as firmly as I can without breaking anything.

“You’ve started something with me that’s totally different than a war, _Abby._ And because of that, I might be an enemy to Chaos, and I might be an enemy to everyone else on this ship. But to you? I am your…” I stop before I say partner. It doesn’t quite feel right. “Inquisitorial Associate. You are now depending on me for all your Inquisitorial needs.”

“Are you saying you are _my_ Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” I state before I can catch myself. The implications are a lot more than I meant. I meant that he is my task. Not that I belong to him. Do I belong to him? Do I actually like him? No. I’m pretty radical and pretty heretical, but I’m not his. And I don’t like him. I don’t think…

“Well, then…after you’ve delivered my message, feel free to inform the other Inquisitors that you are Inquisitor Liese Abaddon, and see how that goes for you,” he sneers, smirk across his face. I frown, my face turning slightly red.

“I’ll deliver your message, you cocky bastard, but one day you’re going to answer for your attitude towards me.”

“Truly I feel threatened,” he laughs, and then scoops me up and mostly gently puts me over his shoulder. “But now you leave, because whether or not we’re dating, we’re at war, and I have other things to think about than being threatened by a tiny, angry woman.”

He walks to a room that seems rather plain and sets me down, then steps back and nods to figures I didn’t see when we entered.

“We’ll meet again, Inquisitor Abaddon,” he says as I feel the spell rooting me.

“We most certainly will, heretic,” I shout as the world around me flickers in and out of view. The last thing I see before my face is pressed on something cold is him grinning.

_Ghalil tekahno. _Red horizon. War eternal. Our actions can make us monsters, men, or mounds of debris but as I get to my feet and hear a vox going off, I make a mental note. Deep inside, we’re _all _still human.


End file.
